Losing Faith to Our Abandon
by qongo
Summary: Shawn's secret is out, and he's trying desperately to reclaim his life. But when a case has him and Juliet as hostages, discoveries will be made, relationships will be questioned, and nothing will ever be the same
1. Chapter 1

His grandpa had always said that the pain from loss wasn't truly felt when it was initially lost, it was felt in the time following, when you were left with nothing but the absence of what you had once loved.

That's where Shawn Spencer was currently. He had long since recovered from the blinding hurt of his girlfriend's inability to forgive his lies and deceit. He couldn't truly blame her; after all, who really felt like or deserved to spend their life with someone like him, with or without the lies?

He hadn't intended for it to happen then, or like it did. He was talking to Gus in an interrogation room he _thought _was closed, disclosing without a second thought how he had obtained the information he had used in his latest "psychic vision." And as his best friend motioned for him to turn around, he just knew, (ironically, almost with a psychic vibe) that his life would never be the same.

He had tried to explain it. It wasn't as if he was lying for the sake of deception, he had legitimate reasons. It started as a way to avoid jail, and had transformed into a sincere and irresistible love of what he was doing, and a fear of losing it.

And she had tried to understand, she had tried to believe him that his feelings for her and never once snuck into his web of lies.

But really. Who would believe a man who spent his whole life fooling people when he told you that seriously, he had _really _been wanting to tell you.

It was like a man caught with a million dollars in stolen cash proclaiming he was about to turn in the money when the cops came calling.

He was fighting a losing battle and he knew it.

And so she was gone. The only woman he'd ever loved, ever felt understood by, ever wanted to have by his side till the end of time, walked away.

But she didn't really walk away. That was the problem. When was the last time there was some entity that terrified you and thrilled you and made your chest ache at the same time, and you absolutely _had _to see them every single day? As much as he wanted to crawl in a hole and forget how thoroughly he had fucked up his life, he couldn't. He had a life to live, and a job he was blessedly allowed to keep, and that just happened to include Juliet.

He saw her everyday, and everyday it seemed to hit him harder that he meant so close to nothing to her anymore.

Anyway, life goes on no matter how meaningless it becomes. They were working a case involving the underground drug exchange in Santa Barbara. There had been a rash of dead bodies turning up in the more rural counties.

It had stumped them at first, what had prompted a chain of seven dead bodies to appear behind plows, inside sheds, tucked amongst the wooded areas of southern Santa Barbara. It first appeared they had no similarities, no distinguishing features, just average citizens of all races, genders, backgrounds, and neighborhoods who had somehow met the same unfortunate fate: robbed of everything, shot one time execution style, and dumped somewhere they would hopefully never be found.

As the investigation probed, continued and they struggled for leads, a common trait was uncovered; they had all been treated for substance abuse at local clinics.

With this information, Shawn had tied them all to a single dealer: a notorious kingpin named Alonso de Jesus Democles. He had a tie to all the victims and had recently deposited $15,000 in cash into three separate offshore accounts before fleeing the country.

It was pretty touch and go for awhile, trying to hunt this guy down in Mexico, where just about everyone assumed he had gone. Until a couple days ago, when his body turned up oddly similarly to those of his victims, dumped behind an abandoned warehouse in Villahermosa.

He was one of the most ruthless and disliked people in Mexico and along the Southern border of the U.S., so his case slipped quietly under the desk of the investigating officers, and all was well again.

Something wasn't sitting right with Shawn though. It seemed too simple. Too...obvious. Democles had been wanted for years on a laundry list of robberies, drug charges, and murders. And then suddenly somebody offs him that easily? It didn't add up.

But Shawn had so little clout right now. He was grateful to still have a job, some part of his old life remaining. He took what cases were thrown at him, and didn't ask for much more. Long story short, he was past the days when he could burst into the bullpen exclaiming his doubts about their wrap-up, and someone would care.

Sadly, he was past the days when he could burst in anywhere, exclaim anything, and anyone would care.


	2. Chapter 2

He sat down at the desk he had relocated to the spare room of his laundry business-turned-apartment-building residence. Gus still helped him out when he needed it, but the legal proceedings from his secret had driven the two just apart enough that the business wasn't feasible anymore, and they stopped taking private clients.

He pulled open Google, and begun a little blind research into Democles. He didn't even know what he was looking for, just something weighty enough to warrant another look from the department.

He was born and raised in Reynosa, Mexico. He was first charged with breaking and entering when he was 15, possession with intent to distribute at 17, and by 20 he was up to assault with a deadly weapon and accessory to murder. It had only snowballed from there.

But nothing jumped out at him. Just the life of a career criminal, with thousands of victims and just as many enemies. He sighed. He might have to let this one go.

Shawn pushed out his chair and stood, taking his coat off the back of his chair as he went. He left the apartment, not bothering to lock it behind him.

What was the worst that would happen? Somebody would rob him of everything he treasured? He'd already done that to himself.

He hopped on his motorcycle, sparing himself the discomfort of his helmet. Just another of the trivialities he no longer gave a second thought.

The powerful roar came up, and he took off towards West Coast Pharmaceuticals, in search of his best friend. The feeling of machinery under him and an ability to go anywhere he chose never got old. He pulled into the parking lot, kicking down his kickstand absentmindedly. He walked through the front doors, stepping into the waiting elevator and heading to the sixth floor where he knew he would find Mr. Burton Guster.

The door was ajar, and he walked right in, making himself at home in one of two chairs in front of Gus's desk. Gus looked up, slightly surprised, taking in the sight of his unexpected visitor.

"Welcome, feel free to sit in that chair there," he muttered sarcastically.

Shawn put his feet up on the desk, kicking a few folders to the floor in the process.

"Really, don't hold back," he sighed again.

"I need your advice on something," Shawn said, deliberately oblivious to his friend's sarcasm.

"There's this drug case. Head of a big drug gang offs seven unpaying customers, disappears into Mexico, shows up a week later, dead, same fashion as the victims. No one really wants to look any closer, case falls away."

Gus got a puzzled look on his face, absorbing the details, looking for imperfections or missing pieces.

"Sounds like a good thing to me. Well, not the dead people, but the drug guy going down. I'm sure you disagree though, so where do I come in?"

Shawn smiled. They knew each other so well.

"It just seems a little too convenient. Most wanted men don't typically go down without a fight, a week after a major crime spree. Wanna help me do a little digging?"

"I can't help you look for nothing. If you want a criminal history, or list of residences, I can do that. But I can't help you look for some mystery fact. Sorry," he shrugged.

Shawn ran his hands through his hair, and kicked the desk in frustration.

"I understand. It's a little vague, even for me. Thanks anyway."

He left the building, headed for his next stop. The bike seemed to drive itself to the familiar location, finding a parking place before Shawn even realized he had arrived.

Suddenly, this didn't seem like such a great idea. I mean, what was he even going to say? They didn't talk much anymore, and he was just going to show up at her apartment, uninvited and unannounced on a Saturday, not even knowing what he was there for? She was going to think he had amnesia or something.

But nonetheless, he was there already, so he made his way slowly up to the front door, knocking lightly. A few seconds passed, and he subconsciously hoped she wasn't home.

_This is ridiculous, _he thought. _Only I would go to someone's apartment then hope they're not there._

Whatever his hopes though, the door swung open, and he wondered what the hell he was going to say.

"Shawn!" she exclaimed, half surprise, half some undetected emotion.

"Hi..." he muttered confusedly. If he didn't start initiating conversation or explaining himself soon, she was going to send him to a psychiatrist.

"Listen, umm. I know this is kind of...odd," he decided to call it what it was," but I wanted to ask your advice on this case, see what you thought about a theory."

_Shit, _he thought, _I don't even have a theory!_

"Uhh, sure, come on in." She stepped back, motioning him into her apartment. It flooded him with memories, good and bad. It was where they had shared memories that convinced him he had found a meaning for his life, and where the meaning had explained to him why she just couldn't be with him any longer.

He stood awkwardly in the entryway, eventually settling for sitting on the arm of the couch.

"It's this drug case. I just can't seem to convince myself we covered all our bases."

She sank into the reclining chair by the TV, considering his comments.

"You know, Lassiter had the same thought, which is odd for a guy like him, who avoids second thoughts like the plague. I convinced him it was his imagination and we're just waiting for the body ID from Villahermosa. What's bothering you exactly?"

_The lack of you in my life, _he ached to repsond. This wasn't about their personal lives now though, she had made it abundantly clear that they were beyond that.

"It just doesn't seem like a mean like Democles who's spent his life on the run just happens to be killed so cleanly and easily right after a major crime spree."

She looked perplexed. "I guess it's a little odd. I guess we could look into it, but it seems like we're better off in our suspected misinformation."

Shawn stood, preparing to leave. "What do you mean?"

Juliet walked him to the front porch before turning abruptly back to him with a sad smile.

"Sometimes accepting the ending you've been dealt avoids the pain of dealing another."

And with that, she kissed him on the cheek, rested her hand over it for a moment, and then shut the door, leaving him stunned, hurt, and lost.


	3. Chapter 3

More than once in his life, Shawn Spencer had just wanted to laugh, admit defeat, and fold his hand as he waited for a simpler life to be generated for him. Unfortunately, life must continue. So after a couple minutes of very depressed, very desperate-looking loitering on his ex-girlfriend's porch, he slumped his shoulders and shuffled back to his bike.

If he wasn't so focused on being stunned and confused, he would've been angry that he had just consulted two of his closest friends, one of whom had basically told him to go jump in a lake, and the other decided to play Ghandi and make him question his own name. He had achieved absolutely nothing.

But as he started his bike, jumping it as Henry Winkler did so many times in _Happy Days,_he heard another sound over the roar of his engine. He looked around, then realized it was coming from Jules, who was now exiting her apartment, waving to catch his attention. He cut the engine, eager for something hopefully a little more decipherable.

"That was Lassiter," she explained, waving her phone,"They just found three more bodies here, and Democles's second in command in Villahermosa. All left the same way. Either someone is just really into coincidences or there really is more to this. I'll follow you down to the station."

He kickstarted his bike again, leading the way out of the complex. As they made the short drive, he reviewed what they knew. Major drug kingpin knocks a few guys who are late on payments, flees when the cops catch on. A week later, somebody does him the same deed in the exact same way. Four days later, three more bodies back with the first victims in Santa Barbara and Democles's right-hand man goes down not five minutes from where Democles was dumped. If their first theory was right, Democles had just committed four murders from six feet under.

It just didn't add up. How did Democles become so easy to find, so fast? Why were the druggie killings in Santa Barbara still happening? And what were the chances that Democles's partner was out in the open, too? Not to mention the fact that events that were supposed to be related were now happening in two separate countries simultaneously. This just didn't add up.

They walked keeping a comfortable distance into the station, Juliet's random bout of Morgan Freeman-ish wisdom still fresh in their minds.

"Good thinking, bringing Mr. Spencer," the Chief said, "Why don't you also call Mr. Guster. We're going to need all available minds working at this.

"Lassiter, I'd like you get in contact with Santiago and find out all you can about these latest crimes. Look for any inconsistencies in the two that might indicate this just being a copycat."

_That's one fast-moving copy-cat. What'd he do, fly between countries on a broomstick?_

He kept his thoughts to himself, though, he was in no position for sarcasm. He looked towards McNabb. _Santiago? _He mouthed, unfamiliar with the new name.

_The Chief down there. _He responded. A thought occurred to him. Maybe it was an inside job. Santiago hires somebody to take care of Democles right after a string of harsh crimes, makes his guys look even better, then takes down #2 for reinforcement.

He quickly scrapped that idea, unable to explain how a police chief would've fled the country on two occasions to commit ten murders without being caught, not to mention why.

"O'Hara, Mr. Spencer, I'd like you to head out to the sites where the bodies were left in Santa Barbara, look for anything odd, anything that points out a motive, as our previous one is now out the window.

"When Guster arrives, he and McNabb can take the records rooms. I want anything we've got on all the victims, including Democles and Guzman. And while you're at it, why don't you look into Santiago. Can't be too thorough. I want something from all of you on my desk in an hour and a half. Let's go, people."

Shawn used context clues this time to deduce that Guzman must be the latest drug ring victim, Democles's helper.

Shawn and Juliet regarded each other awkwardly, searching for something light-hearted to break the silence.

"I'll drive." was all Juliet could muster, and it was all Shawn cared to hear. He himself was convinced the Chief did this periodically just to break his heart freshly.

She punched a series of addresses into her on-board computer, which ordered them almost instantly by distance and calculated directions to the nearest one.

"What's going on in there?" She asked, taking note of the puzzled look on his face as he stared out the window."

He didn't really know actually, but that didn't sound very dependable or intelligent to admit to someone, so he thought fast.

"I'm just trying to figure out a motive. It made sense when it was just Democles and the other seven. Throw in Guzman and these three and the whole thing seems almost unrelated.

"I know. I'm hoping there's something in the tendencies of this latest killer that can tell us if it's the same guy."

He nodded, and they fell into a kind of companionable silence he thought they had lost.

"I think this it." She murmured, grinding the car to a hault in a gravel driveway that led under bright yellow crime scene tape.

She drew her weapon at her side and motioned for Shawn to stay behind her, just in case.

They approached the residence. It was a small brick house with several smaller buildings surrounding it, which looked to include a garage, a shed and a barn. The activity had clearly been around the shed, which was barricaded off by police blockades, signs of earlier investigations.

Just as he turned to get a better feel of the layout, he heard a sickening crack before he felt the blinding pain from the back of his skull. He collapsed immediately as gray floaters started to infiltrate his vision.

Another followed quickly, this time softened by the blow of a gun to the arm of the offender just as he prepared to strike. The victim, he was distressed to find, was Juliet who also crumpled into a slightly less helpless heap on the ground, fighting to keep her weapon out of their possession. She lost the battle with a wicked kick to the wrist, which brought screams of pain from her as the Glock skidded to a hault at the man's feet.

_Men's, _he corrected, seeing that there were two attackers.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He managed to grind out as consciousness evaded him. They were stupid last words, it was fairly obvious what they were doing, but it had seemed so sudden, and he wanted answers.

One of the last things he registered was a black van with tinted windows pulling up the driveway behind them. _And this quickly my life has become a scene out of _48 Hours_, _he thought. "You may recognize me," the smaller man on the right said," My name is Victor Guzman. This here is Alonso Democles. Hope you like Mexican, because you'll be with us for quite awhile."


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn had always thought it was ridiculous when people described periods of their lives as "a blur." Maybe it was because he lived his whole life so acutely aware of everything and everyone around him, but he never understood how a person could lose control or awareness of their situation.

Well now he understood what it meant. From the moment he was hit, he could feel himself losing his grip on reality. He just barely registered the remnants of their interaction with their attackers, and by now he didn't have the slightest clue how they had gotten into the back of this truck. The last thing he remembered was their introductions and some hushed instructions being exchanged, and he had woken up some time later in this seamless blackness.

His mind went to work immediately in appraising his surroundings. He was sitting propped against the wall of the truck, bound at his ankles and wrists. He could feel the warm wetness seeping slowly from the back of his head; he recognized it all too well from the ridiculous number of times he been in positions similar to this. Thankfully, Jules and Lassie were always quick to rescue him.

_Jules. _He was suddenly wide awake, searching the suffocating nothingness for Juliet. The last thing he remembered was Guzman kicking her in the wrist, effectively dislodging her weapon from her grasp. From then on, he didn't have the foggiest idea what had happened to her.

"Jules!" He whispered at nothing in particular, unsure where their attackers were exactly, or what would happen once they knew he was awake.

Having gotten no response, he tried again, this time slightly louder.

"Juliet!" This time he was relieved to hear a muffled but present grunt from across from him.

As his eyes began adjusting, he could see his ex-girlfriend, restrained in the same way on the opposite wall, still in some state between sleep and consciousness. He began scooching most unattractively towards her when the truck must have hit some kind of pothole, and he slid forwards slamming his confined wrists into a metal grate apparently separating the cab from the back.

He tried to remain quiet, but let out a louder grunt of pain than he imagined, and Juliet sat bolt upright.

"Shawn! Ow, dammit." She leaned back again quickly, experiencing the same dizziness and nausea that had hit him as he came to with a jolt.

"What the hell is going on here?" She mumbled, feeling her head and arms wearily, trying to get her bearings.

"Just relax," he coaxed, "sitting up fast makes it worse. I don't know where we're going, but I think it's dark outside, so it's nowhere close."

"I'm afraid I know exactly where we're going, and it involves enchiladas and sombreros."

Shawn groaned. "The first part sounds okay, but there's no way I'm putting some giant hat on this hair."

"Shawn, can you try to focus, here? Difficult as it is for you to imagine, my whole life isn't a joke like yours."

He lowered his head, moving back to his original position against the wall. It was a testament to how far they had come that he had become seemingly entirely unable to make her laugh.

"I just want to make it out of this alive, alright? I don't need you cracking jokes and telling me to 'relax' like everything is perfectly fine."

He didn't know how to respond to that. He just wanted to make her feel better and get a handle on the situation. He decided to just shut his mouth and honor her wishes.

As he wondered how they were going to handle a seemingly endless ride in deafening silence, he could hear a commotion outside the vehicle.

There was an unfamiliar male voiced speaking in hushed tones, yet seeming irritated.

"Usted me dijo que no ibamos a tener una problema."

Juliet looked at him, perplexed.

"You told me we wouldn't have a problem," he translated softly. Now she wants to talk to me, he thought.

"No tenemos una!" This was a second voice, this time he recognized it as Guzman. "Solo tengo que hacer un par de llamadas, obtener un poco dinero para ellos, entonces vamos al volcar igual que Torres.

This was said louder and quicker, and was a little harder to translate. After all, Shawn hadn't spoken or used the language since he was 23, working as a chauffeur in Mexico City.

"There's no problem, he's going to call some people, and then ransom us like they did for someone named Torres," he converted roughly.

"Es mejor estar bien. Por el momento, hacerse cargo de la guardia, tenemos que llegar al otro lado de la frontera."

"Oh boy," he groaned. "We're crossing into Mexico, and this guard's not going to fare well."

The words were barely out of his mouth and the truck lurched forwards sending them both flying forwards, landing awkwardly in a heap at the opposite end. It was made even more awkward by the fact that Juliet had landed practically in his lap. Just as they scrambled to get their bearings, there was more yelling from outside, this time far too fast for Shawn to understand, and they were off again, traveling at an absurd speed straight ahead.

They latched onto the metal grate separating them from the cab and braced themselves as the truck continued its reckless course. It hit a large bump in the road, which Shawn hoped wasn't what he thought it was, and just like that they were back to a normal pace, driving along as if nothing had ever happened.

"Are you okay?" He asked, as he shifted himself to lean against the grate.

"Why do you know Spanish?" She asked, avoiding the question. God forbid things get to personal.

"I spent a few months as a chauffeur in Mexico City when I was 23. I'm a little rusty, it's been like 15 years."

She nodded, seeming lost in thought. "Who do you think Torres is?" She asked suddenly.

"Well, if these guys are Guzman and Democles, I would guess that Torres is one of the guys they dumped in their place. I don't get it, though. Didn't they run DNA to ID the bodies?"

She rolled her eyes. "No Shawn, they closed the played eenie-meenie-miney-moe with a lineup card and guessed. Of course they did."

Shawn sighed. He didn't understand why she was acting like this towards him. They had agreed to stay friends, which still broke his heart, just not quite as much as being shut out of her life completely.

Now though, it was as if she would rather he just didn't exist. If anything, it seemed logical to him that they would grow closer in this situation, not farther apart.

Again, he was spared the awkward silence as the truck slowed to a hault, and the doors opened moments later.

"Bienvdenido a tus nuevo casa." Said Democles with a grin that made his skin crawl.

Shawn sighed. "Wecome to your new home."


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently he had also sustained an injury to his leg at some point, because as far as he could recall, pain like this didn't come without cause. It was only exasperated by the ungraceful, rough way he was yanked out of the truck. Being bound at the ankles made movements like this a little bit difficult.

They were led by their arms along the side of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Shawn was fully expecting to be blindfolded, and was filled with dread when they weren't. Anyone who's ever watched Law and Order knew that wasn't a good sign.

The ground under their feet was cracked and uneven pavement, deteriorating gradually until they were just walking on a slag path. It led around one side of the building and behind it, where they were herded into an open door. Shawn took note of the building as they went, unsure of when they'd be outside it again. It was a relatively short building, with no more than three floors. It had lines of plain, boarded up windows, some with broken seals. This was the only entrance he had seen so far, but he suspected there were more around the opposite side, which seemed to lie on a busier road. There wasn't much in the way of traffic or business towards this side however; a few abandoned trucks and what looked like a gas station in the distance were all that hinted at a normal life.

It's a good thing he ran out of things to look at though, as he was about to walk face-first into a concrete door. He glanced around at his three traveling companions irritatedly. _Thanks for the heads up, guys. What a friendly bunch you are._

They were shoved brusquely inside and the door was quickly shut and locked in multiple locations behind them. Guzman got to work tightening their restraints while Democles scurried around the room, presumably checking other doors and windows which were coming into view as Shawn's eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Here's how this is going to work," said Guzman condescendingly. He took a spot crouching in front of them. "When we leave, a very pretty red light is going to come on across the room. That means that a camera is on. And when that camera comes on, it links with my phone, and anytime it is disturbed or something comes within fifteen feet of it, I get a text. And when I get a text, I come back here and kill you, clear?"

In Shawn's experience, statements like this tended to be rhetoricals, so he kept his mouth shut.

_Evidently not._

He was corrected quickly as Democles, now back from his expedition, shifted to his back leg and brought his fist forwards into Shawn's mouth. He couldn't help the garbled cry that came as he felt his jaw move in and out of place and white hot pain shot through his face and neck.

"WHEN WE SPEAK TO YOU, YOU BETTER FUCKING ANSWER. CLEAR!?"

"_CRYSTAL FUCKING CLEAR!" _Shawn shouted in return, despite the fresh pain that brought.

He didn't really understand what in Hell Democles was so upset about. In the last month, Shawn had had his girlfriend leave him, his best friend all but leave him, narrowly keep his job, been smashed in the back of the head with a baseball, kidnapped in a truck to Mexico, and now was spitting out blood and teeth from a vicious right hook to the mouth. Of the two of them, it seemed like Shawn was the one who had earned the right to be pissed off.

Democles only laughed in return, apparently not intimidated by Shawn's outburst. Not that he could blame him, it's hard to be intimidated by someone who's all but whimpering from the punch you just threw.

"Hope you two are comfy here, because it's time for us to get some reward for you morons before we kill you. May take awhile, cops never like to bargain.

"Disfrutar de su estancia!" Guzman yelled over his shoulder as he exited, flipping a switch that activated the red light as he went.

"What's that mean?" Juliet asked, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

Shawn sighed. "Not worth repeating. Alright. What do we do now?" He asked, geared up. He wanted a project, something to work at.

Juliet laughed. "What do you mean, 'what do we do'? They're gone, we're under surveillance, then they're going to kill us. End of story."

Now it was Shawn's turn to laugh. "You're unbelievable. When I met you, there was nothing you wouldn't take on. You had such a fire, and such determination that you made everyone around you as confident as you were."

He stepped easily over the handcuffs to bring his hands in front of him as he spoke. _Did they really not know that was possible? He'd known this move since he was like six. Although, he hadn't exactly had a normal childhood…._

_Anyway. _"I don't know what happened, and I pray to God it's nothing I did, because I can't stand to see you act like we don't have a choice here."

"Shawn, I'm tired of your—"

"WOULD YOU LET ME FINISH ONE FUCKING THOUGHT BEFORE YOU TELL ME YOU'RE TIRED OF ME? I know it, okay?! I can see it in your eyes and the way you act around me, I know how little I and what I say mean to you anymore. I get that. But this isn't The Bachelor, this is real life! In case you haven't noticed, we're Goddamn hostages here! All I'm trying to do is survive here, which seems like an interest we should be able to agree on. And I give you my word, you can hate me as soon as we leave, but a little support in a pretty simple wish would be so very FUCKING GREATLY APPRECIATED!"

He was so tired by the end of this rant he just collapsed against the wall a few feet down from Juliet. Now he just wanted a nap.

He wasn't sure what he had accomplished with that little outburst, but he felt better having done it.

Just as he thought he'd be in this alone, he felt something he hadn't felt in far too long. He smiled into the darkness as he felt Juliet's fingers lace through his, resting on his leg.

He squeezed her hand, maintaining his desperately frail grasp on his emotional and physical survival.


	6. Chapter 6

Though he was happier knowing he at least had a little support here, he still didn't have the slightest clue what he was going to do next. He sighed.

"What next?" he dropped the question out into the fast approaching darkness. Apparently this place wasn't lit well. Not surprising, considering he was pretty sure it hadn't been designed for long-term residence.

"I don't really know. Why don't we run through what we know, and try to figure out something that could be of use here. We've got nothing but time…"

"Okay. So Democles and Guzman, partners, are about as integrated in drug trafficking as two people can get. They kill some people who are past due and dump them in Santa Barbara. Pretty straight forward up to here. But then it gets complicated. Three more people and fake-Guzman show up dead in Santa Barbara. That was more confusing before we knew they weren't really dead. At least now we know who killed those three."

Maybe his mind was just too many places at once right now, or maybe it was the head trauma, but he wasn't thinking real clearly right now.

"But why did Guzman and Democles have to fake their deaths? Clearly they know how to not be found, they've been doing it since they were teenagers, why "die" now?"

"Well, they're clearly not trying to quit their life of crime. It really doesn't make sense. And who are the people that they dumped in their places?"

Shawn thought for a minute. He felt like he was missing something.

"Well, one of them is named Torres, but aside from that I have no idea. Just more overdue customers?"

"It's all I can think of, but how did they get their DNA to match?"

Shawn laughed. This was getting more ridiculous by the minute.

'I have no idea. This is absurd. Then, there's always the very legitimate question, why kidnap us? Why not Lassie? We clearly thought they were dead, so why not let us keep thinking that and just fall off the map again? Now they're guaranteed an exhaustive search, you can't kidnap a cop and not expect an investigation."

They sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. After a little while, he realized that daylight was fading fast, blanketing the place in a suffocating blackness.

"I probably should have asked this when there was light, but do you think we should look around at all?"

He shook his head. "I'd be too afraid to trip that sensor. Let's just wait until tomorrow at this point."

"I can still see some of it, though. This is clearly some kind of a workplace, I see tools over there…." He kind of trailed off. Not for lack of sight, but for a lack of anything significant. He didn't know what he expected to see, a big bin marked, "what you need to know and do to make it out alive and arrest us" maybe, but there was nothing that really jumped out at him. It made no sense. And it seemed to make even less sense the more they learned about it. Suddenly he had an idea. Totally unrelated to the laundry list of separate crimes they were trying to solve, but an idea nonetheless.

"I don't know if you really thought this far in advance, you don't seem like the kind of guys that do that much, but we're kinda hungry in here." He yelled out into the empty room. Juliet smacked him on the leg, shooting him a heavily confused look. He nodded in reassurance. _Trust me._

Sure enough, within 45 seconds, a phone rang on the opposite wall. He hesitated, that wall was well out of the range they were permitted to move within. Before he could even come to a decision, the red light on the camera went off, signaling the camera had been disabled. He smiled.

It took a few tries, with added assistance from Juliet to stand up in the state he was, but he managed to shuffle to the phone as it hit probably its fifteenth ring.

"Well, hello there. I was just wondering if you fine gentleman had any refreshments in this little dwelling, we're a bit famished."

"You're lucky I'm not there, or you'd be laid flat again. In fact, you should feel lucky you're still alive. Your voice alone is enough to drive me to homicide." Not a very friendly response, but at least he had him talking.

"All I'm saying is, you're not getting a penny from anyone if you let us starve to death on your watch."

Silence. There was no negating that logic. "There's a door behind where you guys are sitting. The passcode is 6628. Don't get too excited, it's just an old break-room turned kitchen. We'll be back sooner or later to buy you some more. Adios, chochos."

He limped back to where they were camped, against the far wall and slumped against it.

"I swear to God, Shawn. The things you know and do made a Hell of a lot more sense before I knew you weren't psychic."

He laughed. "Think about it, Jules. They got lucky that we didn't look around too much while we still had daylight. But the sun is going to rise again, and eventually we're gonna start looking for a way out. And I'd bet one of those exists that doesn't come within ten feet of that camera."

The camera which had conveniently been re-activated, by the way.

He helped her to her feet and punched the passcode into a keypad next to the reinforced gray door behind them. It slid into the wall with a lurch. He held his arm back in front of Juliet in a protective gesture, fully expecting the whole place to blow at any second. He stepped inside, waving his arms around just in case.

He retracted his arm after a few seconds of fairly futile exploration. The place looked normal, albeit not somewhere that really promotes an appetite. Typical, though, stove/oven, sink, refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator in the same way he'd entered the room. When nothing exploded or attacked, he relaxed the grip he didn't even know he'd been holding on the counter next to him. _Lot of good that'd do him in an explosion. _

"Hey, I think it's okay…" He called to Juliet, who was feeling along the walls of the room. It wasn't an overly exciting find, and they really weren't as starving as he made them out to be, but he it's not like he was going to turn down food. He grabbed an apple, throwing one over his shoulder to Juliet.

"I don't suppose you Spanish fluency came with an ability to pick locks and handcuffs, does it?"

"They weren't a package deal, but I did pick it up along the road. I just need something to use. There should be some silverware around somewhere." Suddenly a bright light illuminated the room from overhead. He was beyond confused for a second, then realized Juliet had just flipped a switch. It made him wonder what other ridiculously simple things he had missed so far.

The room looked just like his kitchen at home, complete with drawers and cabinets, most of which were empty. One, though, did contain some silverware he wouldn't have used for anything but lock-picking, certainly not eating.

He sat down on the floor and inserted the prong of a fork into the lock on his shackles. Both parts were pretty rusted over so it took him slightly longer, but in less than two minutes it clicked and the lock sprang open.

He looked up, like a child waiting for his prize. He stood much more easily this time, without nearly as much thrashing and flailing.

"Go ahead," he said suggestively, just inches from Juliet. "Tell me what a man of mystery I am."

She smiled, patting his arm. "Oh Mrs. Spencer. I've never doubted your powers of mysticism. Now if you don't mind, I too would like to be able to walk normally again."

He rolled his eyes dramatically, dropping to his knees. "These women!" He yelled, at no one in particular. "They're just never satisfied!"

She laughed, and it made him smile. It made him smile to think he could still make her laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

The bullpen was quiet. Not the eerie kind of quiet, but the inspiring kind of quiet, that told you there were a lot of people hard at work. Four of them were seated in Chiek Karen Vick's office at the moment.

Gus, Henry, Lassiter and the Chief were working feverishly on separate tasks, each one of them with a laptop and mounds of folder and photos scattered around them.

"They wouldn't really have driven to Mexico, would they? I mean, chance border control and everything?" This was Gus, glancing up from his furious researching of Guzman's past.

As if on cue, Lassiter slammed his hand down on the table. "No, you've gotta be kidding me! Son of a bitch!" He typed something in quickly, read over his findings, then slammed his fist down again.

"You may be the psychic, Guster. Breaking news on CNN and the lead Mexican site: two guards killed and one injured at a less-traveled border intersection. Early reports indicate an altercation with two Spanish-speaking men driving an unmarked white work truck. Dammit!" He yelled. "We need to get a lead on these two, or people are gonna keep dying! And sooner or later, it's going to be Spencer and O'Hara."

"Let's just stay calm, Detective. Getting worked up doesn't solve anything. Is there anything else of use in the article?"

He sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Not really. They drove up and jumped out right away, shooting the first two guards that approached them. Their engine stalled when they tried to get back in, and a third patrolman was run over when he tried to stop them. I can't believe we're still a step behind these clowns."

Gus was standing, looking out the window of the Chief's office. He wasn't used to taking stuff like this on without Shawn. He felt a little lost, to be honest.

"Alright, let's just treat this as a good thing."

He was shot several confused and slightly accusing looks from around the room. He rolled his eyes and clarified.

"I mean, it's not a good thing that two men died, but in the case, at least we know they're in Mexico now."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "We've now narrowed it down to an entire country. Thanks, Guster, let me right that up on the leads bored."

"That's enough, gentleman," the Chief scolded. She was one of those people that could just make anyone feel guilty by looking in their general direction. They were silent.

"There are two of our own kidnapped and God knows what else and you two are standing here arguing like children. Now Lassiter, I want you to call the officials in charge of that area of border patrol. Guster, if you don't mind I'd like you to go to the site of the kidnapping and take a look around."

Gus hesitated. The last people who had attempted that little mission were now being held hostage somewhere in Mexico. Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled to be next in line.

He waited until Lassiter had left the room to approach her desk. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, what can I help you with, Mr. Guster?"

"I was just, umm...I was a little...anxious about going to the site. You know, alone and...unprotected."

She smiled, looking around the station. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Guster, have you ever taken a firearms certification class?"

He nodded. "Just the one you made us take when we went to the Academy. I've fired a few times, I guess." It finally clicked. His voice also quieted.

"Chief, I can handle a gun, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not gonna pull a Plaxico Burress and shoot myself by accident or anything."

She didn't look sold on the idea, but subtly pulled a holstered weapon out of her desk, nonetheless.

"Thanks, Chief. It won't be a problem, you have my word."

He tucked the weapon in his waistband and left, attempting to act normal. He typed the given address into his GPS. He was eight minutes away.

Suddenly he was extremely nervous. Not only for the responsible he now felt he had to use this thing carefully, but for loneliness he felt. He missed his partner. They spent most of everyday working together, and had come to really value his powers of observation. Much to his chagrin, he arrived at the barn he was looking for.

He got out, sneaking comically up the driveway like some cinemas version of David Caruso. His heart chilled as he noticed the point in the center of the driveway that was clearly stained with blood. He let out a relieved breath as he came to the conclusion it was well under a fatal amount. He pulled out his phone, photographing the scene to take back with him. There wasn't much in the way of evidence or clues, he could see where the two of them had clearly fallen, and where the truck had squealed out, leaving skid marks.

He took a few pictures of the marks and the blood before reluctantly creeping around the back of the barn. He sighed, as he encountered yet another blood stain, this time of the woman who had originally been found here. The barn had a door on the side and two at the back, all locked. He took a couple panoramic shots, keeping one hand carefully placed on the gun as he went. He took a final look around before backing to his car and all but diving in, locking the doors behind him.

"Where are you, Shawn." He whispered to the empty car. The far too empty car.


	8. Chapter 8

He woke up with a most unattractive groan, a product of the uncomfortable position he had fallen asleep in, slumped against the refrigerator. To be honest, he was so tired, he didn't quite remember how they had fallen asleep, he just remembered getting them both uncuffed and eating a couple of apples from the fridge, but after that it was kinda blurry. Given the position they were in, it didn't look like anything terribly fascinating had happened.

Juliet was asleep a few feet away, her legs resting nearly in his lap. His coat lay draped over her. Apparently these regions of Mexico aren't the Cancun type, and in fact get quite cold at night. He had lain his coat over her at some point during the night, considering his flannel shirt more suited for a stay like this than her light business suit. Shawn was sure she'd have a problem with it once she awoke, never being one to be dependent on a man, but for now he was enjoying the ability to take care of his girlfriend.

A brief but powerful pain shot through his chest as he remembered he no longer had any right to call her that. He had destroyed that right all by himself, and he needed to get used to it.

By the ripe old age of 34, he should have been long accustomed to the fact that fate never let him rest long, but it never seemed to stop coming as a surprise. This, clearly evidenced by the slamming open of the door on the opposite side of the wall as Guzman and Democles strolled in like princes of the court.

"Well, hello, Mr. Spencer. I trust that you slept well."

Shawn rolled his shoulders and nodded briefly, trying to gauge their game. He wasn't sure he wanted to play, whatever it was.

"I was hoping this situation would be reversed so we could ask our friend a few questions without the nuisance and aggravation that is, you."

Shawn smiled mockingly. "No-can-do, fellas. Besides, I'm the psychic, remember? I would be the one you want to speak to."

This was won thing he had always been supremely good at: portraying a calm that was hilarious in comparison to how he was really feeling. At the moment, Shawn was desperately frantic to them away from Juliet at any cost, but he'd be damned if they were going to find that out.

"If you insist," Guzman returned. Shawn was hauled gruffly to his feet, one assailant under each arm, and all but dragged out of the room. It was not a comfortable position, so he tried to get his legs functioning under himself, which only proved to aggravate his ankle, or whatever had been injured.

They swung open the door they had come through and continued to half carry/half drag Shawn down a long hallway with numerous doors on both sides. Shawn was sure of it now, this place had been some kind of industrial business building at one time. Unfortunately for Shawn, it was obvious the place was no more than a haunt for sickos and felons to conduct their dirty work. _Terrific._

His notoriously ADD thoughts were cut off by the impact of hitting the floor of a room on the right side of the hall with a thud. Again, glad Jules wasn't there to see that landing. Not his best.

Democles and Guzman were also unimpressed, as evidenced by a swift kick to his stomach. Air escaped his chest, leaving him shocked and in pain, curled into the fetal position. Even this instinctual defense mechanism was robbed of him as he was thrown into a chair and bound.

"What the Hell," he gasped out, beginning to regain his breath.

"That was just a preliminary shot. It serves two purposes: warns you what will happen if you don't cooperate, and portrays our irritation that your wit has made this ridiculous escapade a necessity."

Shawn moaned, observing the grinding noise as his probably fractured rib shifted in his chest. "You know, my dad always did say my mouth was gonna get me in trouble one day. Who would have known it wouldn't be my mouth, it'd be my mind."

A lightning-quick punch forced him to rethink that statement, as well as recall his name.

"Turns out it's both." Democles pulled a chair from behind a desk behind them, throwing Shawn into in brusquely.

"Now, look. We're not sick people here," Shawn bit back a laugh and an endless supply of retorts, "we just want some information before we kill you."

Shawn's blood ran cold, but as always that was concealed quickly by a snarky comment._Skating through life on blades of snarky eloquence, _as Mary had put it.

"See, it could just be the head trauma speaking here, but I think murder classifies one as a sicko in most people's books."

This time, simple brute strength didn't really cut it evidently, and thus a new weapon was entered into the picture: a steel pipe.

Where it had come from or when it had arrived was a mystery to Shawn, but he considered himself lucky it had only struck his arm this time, not his skull. Not lucky in an I'm-so-glad-this-happened way, but lucky in an I-could-be-dead-right-now way. Besides, it wasn't pain he was worried about, it was being able to protect Juliet. And he couldn't do that from the grave.

I mean, he'd never really been a big church person, but he was pretty sure that was the way this stuff worked.

It was difficult to remember how lucky he was when white hot stabs of pain shot through his wrist, but he seemed to recall feeling that way at one point, and if there was one thing Shawn never did, it was waiver. And thus he decided that in some twisted, ridiculous way, he was lucky.

"Look cabró n, this doesn't end well for you, you've just about sured that up. But I'm pretty sure you're not your main concern, are you?"

The two captors shared a smug look. Shawn wasn't normally this easy to read, but he was, understandably, a little off his game at the moment.

"So if you want the girl to live, where the Hell is the money."

Shawn sighed. _How did he always end up in these situations? _Yeah, they were investigated these nimrods, but he didn't have the faintest idea where their money was. Like that was going to be believable.

"Look, clearly you guys know that that girl in there is worth just about everything to me," he garbled. His speech was nearly as incomprehensible as theirs as the swelling in his mouth progressed. "So you have to believe me when I tell you, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

A guttural moan escaped him as the pipe was driven into his knee. The force of the blow knocked him backwards with his attached chair, crumpling on his side with an awkward thump. He was righted gruffly and shoved across the floor.

"You have one more chance to answer this correctly or convince us you're telling the truth, or we let you live and go smash your girlfriend to pieces. Clear?"

Shawn struggled to regain his speech and breath through the blinding pain that threatened to overtake his consciousness.

"All we knew about you guys was the connection between victims, we were just going back to take another look around when you caught us." Shawn has to stop for a second and focus on staying conscious. The room was starting to spin.

"I assume you're speaking of drug money, but I swear to God, I have no Earthly clue what or where it is. And if you think this," he made his finger-to-eyebrow motion, "is going to help you, I can barely remember my name right now, let alone field psychic visions."

Guzman paced the room, kicking the wall every once in a while. Shawn took smug pride in the fact that he was, at least, frustrating them.

"Fine crawl your culo lo siento back in with your girl. But don't think we're done with you."

Shawn didn't know what half these words meant, (though he was pretty sure they weren't compliments), but he was just happy to have survived this first round. Democles slashed the ties from his wrists and ankles and pointed him in the right direction down the hall.

The two captors exited swiftly through another door, leaving Shawn to gimp down the hall like a wounded animal, stopping every few feet to catch his breath and grit his teeth against the pain.

By some act of God he made it though, collapsing inside the door. He'd never been so happy to see a dark warehouse room in his life. But compared to the previous one, this one was like a beautiful retreat.

Juliet, now fully awake, rushed to the entrance, where Shawn had immediately crumpled.

"Shawn, oh God, Shawn. What happened?" Her hands hovered over him, eager to help but unsure of what was injured.

"It's okay, Jules," he mumbled, "they just wanted to talk and compare interests. Kind of like 'Oprah's favorite things,' only a little more violent."

He pulled himself into a sitting position and began the long scooting journey back to the opposite wall. Juliet was unperturbed, stilling his movements with a hand on his chest. Even in this state, her touch felt right. It felt comforting and natural. It made him feel safer.

Just as an awkward silence overcame the room, a car passed their little abode. The headlights shone briefly in the high window, providing just enough light for Juliet to catch a glimpse of Shawn's injuries. The oens to his face anyway, the worst ones were blessedly disguised by his clothes.

She gasped, throwing her hands up to cover her mouth.

"Jules, it's not as bad as it looks." Even to him, the line sounded fake and cliché, but he didn't have the energy to try and conceal it. It was much, much worse than it looked.

"I'm so sorry, Shawn," she whispered. She brought her hand up ever so gently to rest against his cheek. It was a feather-light touch, as to avoid further injury, but its presence alone brought him comfort.

And just like that it was gone, like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. This is how their relationship had been over the last few months; everything would be platonic and professional for awhile, and then there would be some moment between them where he dared to hope she was forgiving him, and learning to love him again. But inevitable it would end, and she'd be so quick to pretend it had never happened that he often doubted if he hadn't simply imagined the scene himself. It was certainly s possibility with his current mental state, but he was fairly sure this current awkwardness hadn't come out of nowhere.

"Why do you always do that?" He asked, long before he even knew what he was saying. As soon as the words were out, he was wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

"Excuse me?"

_Too late now. _"Why do you always do that, pretend you don't feel anything for me anymore? I know this is all my fault, every last moment of it, but you don't have to hate me. It's okay to not wish you'd never met me all the time."

He could have slapped himself. This was far more sincerely than they'd talked in a very long time, and here it was happening in a disgusting warehouse, while Shawn could barely stay conscious, much less focus on choosing words carefully.

He was pleasantly surprised when he actually earned a response.

"I don't wish that, Shawn." Her voice, barely a whisper, wafted around the empty room like wind, seeming to be absorbed everywhere.

"I just," and suddenly the words were tumbling out faster than Shawn's sluggish brain could comprehend, but there were music to his ears. "You're just…so easy to fall so quickly for, and I…I have to stop myself, because I still don't know what I feel, or if I can forgive you."

She backed away slightly, suddenly keenly aware of how close they were still sitting.

"But I've never wished that, Shawn. Ever."

Shawn took a moment to process the words, process their meaning, and process their effect on their situation.

And then he smiled. "I can work with that."


	9. Chapter 9

_ "I hate to interrupt Paul, but we're about to cut to Tom, with breaking news. Tom?"_

_ "Yes, I am live at the Santa Barbara Police Headquarters where I have just received word that Detective Juliet O'Hara and frequent psychic consultant Shawn Spencer are believed to have been kidnapped. Details are still emerging but in a surprise press conference by Chief Karen Vick, they are thought to be in the custody of Alonso de Jesus Democles and his counterpart Victor Guzman._

_ "If this seems odd to you, it may be because these two were reported dead just two days ago, following a string of puzzling murders. As details come into light, we will continue…"_

The news station blared over the television speakers, sending the room's occupants into a rage.

"I just talked to these idiots yesterday," one shouted, kicking over a table and chairs furiously, "I knew I shouldn't have let them handle this. How the Hell did the cops find out?"

His two companions expressed similar rumblings of disgruntlement and anger. The three men continued to grunt and ramble, even as they prepared themselves to depart, grabbing coats and weapons as they spoke.

"I didn't want to have to get involved in this, but clearly I have no choice. I can't believe this has gotten so out of hand.

The oldest of the men, clearly the leader, climbed into the driver's seat of a waiting Ford Escalade, flanked by the other two in identical vehicles and sped out of a gravel driveway.

"Are you sure that was a good idea?"

"Not in the least, Mr. Guster, but I am running out of ideas. Look, clearly whatever these bastards are after is pretty damn important to them, and they have yet to contact us for anything, so chances are they haven't received it yet.

"I took a chance, because criminals don't pull off stunts like this for nothing. There's something big in this for them, and Spencer and O'Hara are too valuable right now to harm."

Gus shook his head and sighed. Maybe she was right, maybe she wasn't, but he certainly didn't like someone gambling with his best friend's life like that. He flashed back to their first and last encounter with the drag racing industry in which he had somehow ended up a hostage, locked in a trunk. A fairly spacious trunk, but still.

Lassiter had tried to convince Shawn that they had only been bluffing, but Shawn's words still echoed in his mind: _I'm afraid I couldn't take that chance._

And here he was, the tables turned, and he was making major gambles with his friend's life, but he had no idea where to draw the line.

Now back in their camp of an office, they resumed where they had left off, searching for anything to guide them before they officially moved their base of operations to Mexico.

"Lassiter, has someone been in contact with Santiago yet?"

Lassiter fished for a file amidst the stack of papers and records.

"Yeah, uhh," he scanned the transcript taken by the caller, "I had Dobson call earlier. He was en route to the border crime scene so he couldn't talk long, but he said initial reports were that there had been a conflict between a truck, presumably Democles and Guzman, and another man just before the border. Guard's in critical condition at a hospital in southern Texas, they're not sure yet if he'll wake up."

The Chief swore. _That's a new one, _Gus thought.

"I looked into Santiago earlier, looks clean. Actually has one of the highest solve rates in the country."

Silence took over the room. They had nothing to go on. They had no leads, no motives, no witnesses, and two of their own, their closest own, were God knows where, going through God knows what. Aside from the Yin/Yang debacle, this was one of the darkest moments in that department's history.


	10. Chapter 10

What did you do when you were trapped in a dark, silent warehouse for a seemingly endless amount of time, with someone who still just barely liked you? Well, you did a lot of sleeping, a lot of pretending you were asleep, but also a lot of talking. A LOT of talking.

You talked about the case and the people that had brought you here, you talked about the people looking for you, and you talked about the years and the moments that had led you here.

"You never went on vacation," she asked incredulously. He shook his head. "We didn't have time for trivialities at Camp Detective," he responded, "that's why I took off as soon as I turned 18. That and the fact that I hated my life."

She squeezed his hand. This was how the last couple hours had gone. Taking turns sharing details about their lives to pass the time. It was more than they'd talked in weeks, and more deeply, too.

"I don't need pity, though. I guess I'm a better person for it." He tried to think that, but it was hard to see sometimes. Usually.

They fell into silence, but not the comfortable kind, the kind that meant a tough subject was coming.

"Yknow," she cleared her throat, "I never really let you explain why you started this charade. Maybe it's time for that."

_Just another perk of forced enclosure, _he noted. _Unable to escape from a conversation._

"Well," he began. _Seems like a good start. _"I called in an anonymous tip. The store owner they were interviewing had a nervous tick, dead giveaway. No problem, except that was like the tenth I had called in that month alone. Cops weren't real smart before you came along, Jules.

"Lassie and his old partner called me in questioned me. He hated me right off the bat because I made his department look like idiots. He told me the only way I could possibly have that information was if I was in on it. He was ready to throw me in jail, so I said the first thing that came to mind." He gestured widely with his arms. "Psychic."

She nodded slowly, trying to process this information. It seemed like a logical (for Shawn) reason to begin a charade like that, but at any point after that he could've quit. Quit and moved on like he'd done with everything else in his life. She voiced these opinions to Shawn, who seemed suddenly more passionate about his argument.

"Yeah, but Jules, I was having so much fun," she rolled her eyes, to which he guided her back to facing him, "seriously! I had never had more fun in my life! It was a dream-come-true, helping people, the way my dad always wanted, while still managing to screw my dad over in the process, by forgoing all the protocol and rules that actual cops had to follow.

"And I don't have many excuses for not telling you sooner, except that by the time I thought I could, I was terrified to because I knew I would lose you and the job. But that's the best damn excuse I have for starting Psych in the first place."

He relaxed back against the wall, somewhat exhausted from sharing his deepest thoughts and truest emotions with someone.

He had been expecting another quick retort, the kind that had bonded them to begin with, but he took the lack of one to be some kind of acceptance. Hopefully.

And so they continued on like that, sometimes stopping in reasonably comfortable silence, other times voicing some long-harbored question into the other's life, and reflecting on the absurdity of this whole thing.

That was of course preferable to the sound of the heavy steel door being unlocked and swung open, and two sets of heavy footfalls.

Shawn tried immediately but rather unsuccessfully to stand up, ready to take whatever fresh hell was here to greet them.

Yes, that attempt made him look more like some sort of seizing walrus than any brave protector, but it was the thought that counted.

"You can sit, lover boy," Democles taunted, but only after kicking him once in the knee already smashed in previously by the pipe. _Not like I have a choice now, _he thought as he collapsed back to the floor.

"This is going to be a joint interrogation. I feel like it might be more productive if you have your motivation right in front of you."

Shawn groaned, equal parts pain and dread.

"First question: chief of the department, go."

The question took him by surprise, unsure why they would be interested in that, or more importantly, not know already. Apparently this moment of thought was not approved, evidenced by the following kick to the injured wrist.

"Vick!," he cried, punching the wall behind him to outlet some of the pain, "Karen Vick! A few seconds to collect my thoughts would be so greatly appreciated," he ground out between the waves of nausea the pain was sending his way.

The two men laughed. _Laughed._

"Very well. Next question: what were you doing out where we…_found_…you guys?"

Shawn glanced at Juliet. He didn't know what was in his best interest as an answer. She shrugged minutely.

"Five," Guzman began, counting down.

"Investigating!" Shawn shouted. "Investigating the scene."

He made a mental note that these were really inefficient captors; it was obvious to anyone that they had no idea what they were doing or what to ask next. Shawn took smug satisfaction in that.

As Democles opened his mouth to speak again, a cell phone rang. It cut the tension in the room so sharply that all four of them jumped in surprise. Glancing at the screen, Democles swore, but swiped the screen to answer anyway, waiting for a greeting.

He backed away slightly, as if a matter of a few feet prevented them from being heard. Guzman pulled a gun on the two of them, reminding them who was still in charge of this situation.

"Usted no tiene que venir aqui. Su control en virtud." Shawn frowned. This was a new one. It appeared as though whoever Democles was speaking with was very much in charge of him, and very much agitated.

"No puedo matarlos, sin embargo, tenemos que ver lo que saben sobre Torres."

_Ding ding ding. _That name rung a bell. To Juliet, at least; Shawn had a look of cautious excitement on his face, as if more than the name was starting to make sense. Juliet glanced at him, hoping to find him paying some sort of attention to this conversation. He looked thoroughly intrigued.

"Finalmente van a conocer la plataforma de intercambio. A continuacion Santiago, y entonces tenemos que salir. Rapido."

Shawn was practically grinning by now, flanked by a very confused looking Juliet. The conversation ended with a series of interrupted sentences and shouting, too fast for Shawn to comprehend. But it didn't matter, he had all he needed. Democles swore, throwing his cell phone across the phone where it shattered against the wall. _Brilliant, _Shawn thought.

"Now you listen to me," Guzman growled after being filled in by his partner, "I have one more question for the two of you and then we have to get out of here. Tell me everything you know immediately about Victor Torres."

Juliet started to speak before Shawn shouted over her, elbowing her in a very Gus-esque way, as if to say, 'Let me take this one.'

"Nothing. Never heard of the guy." Shawn bluffed, fairly convincingly.

Guzman squinted, not entirely convinced. "What about Enrique Barco?"

"Gilipollas!" Democles shouted, approaching Guzman menacingly. "Nada hasta que dijo que su nombre!"

Shawn faked a coughing fit, fighting the urge to laugh. The last thing he wanted was for these idiots to know he was understanding every word they were saying.

A brief argument ensued, followed by their captors' departure from the room. Shawn got the feeling they wouldn't be back very soon, but someone else would.

He looked to his companion with an amused smile on his face, taking a moment to enjoy just how perplexed she looked. Sensing this, she slapped his arm.

"Don't withhold information!"

He laughed. "Okay, so here's the condensed version. Whoever Democles was talking to is very much in charge of him, and not happy with him. He said he couldn't kill us because he had to find out what we knew about Torres. Pop quiz: who's Torres?"

He turned to face her, kind of enjoying this moment. It was more jovial than they'd had in quite a while, and it was a fun distraction.

"The guard they killed?" She guessed.

"Close. I'll give you half a point for that one. He's the guy they discussed with the other guy _before _they killed the guard.

She groaned. "But if he's the guy they discussed-"

"_Jules," _Shawn whined, flapping his good arm at his side like a petulant child, "No questions until the end!" She bit back a laugh, signaling for him to continue.

""Clearly, I could only hear their side of the conversation, but from the sound of things I'd say it's unlikely we're going to see Democles and Guzman again for awhile, possibly not ever again alive. Hence, the whole 'we have to get out of here' thing." Juliet nodded, attentive, but still not sure how the rest of this tied in.

"But see here's the thing. Have you ever heard of pad swapping, or exchange?"

She shook her head. "Okay. It's this thing running rampant down here especially gangs and in the drug war. I've only heard of it a couple times, once when we took a case from this woman whose husband had gone missing on vacation in Cancun. I don't know all the fine points, but basically it involves taking transposing the outer layer of your fingerprints onto another person. It can be done dead or alive, but is generally done to make bodies unidentifiable in mass murders to make finding a motive more difficult.

"The referenced it in their little monologue, and I'd bet the farm that's how they got the DNA to match on the other two bodies."

He waited a moment, allowing it all to sink in. She nodded eventually, signaling him to go on.

"The other name they mentioned was Santiago, who is most likely in on this, too. I'm not sure in what capacity, yet."

"Then who else did they swap, besides this Torres guy?"

Shawn smiled. "See that's the kicker. I don't think they swapped it at all, I think that's the problem. This is a guess, but I'd say someone somewhere along the line screwed up the process, lost the swap, and they panicked once we started ID'ing people. Once we found someone without prints, we'd catch onto the other two, and the jig would be up."

To be honest, he was more than a little exhausted from these revelations. He had forgotten how over-the-top these things used to be, he was a little rusty.

"I mean, obviously this doesn't answer all the questions," he amended, "but at least we have a start."

The elephant in the room, however, was that this was like going back in time and watching terrorists prepare for an attack. Now you knew how they had done it, and what was going to happen, but no one to tell it to and nothing to do about it.


	11. Chapter 11

Six hours. That's how long Carlton Lassiter had been drinking steadily in his living room, poring over police protocol. He prided himself on knowing every detail of the multi-edition, multi-volume text. In this case though, he was wishing there was something he had missed.

They had been prepared to drop everything and head to Mexico, no problem, then they encountered an issue. Because Guzman and Democles were Mexican citizens and the crimes had taken place primarily there, they were totally out of their jurisdiction. The only possible way to investigate it legally would be to be officially allowed on the case by Santiago, but seeing as how he had stopped even answering their phone calls, that seemed unlikely.

But Carlton Lassiter didn't give up. Especially not on the law, and especially not on his partner. And even Spencer, it'd give him some pause. And thus he had appointed himself head of the newly formed, Look-for-a-Loophole committee. He was just about to give up and cross the line into total drunkenness, when he found. It was far from obvious, and barely even comprehensible, but he found it. Edition A, Volume III, Chapter IV, Line 18-19: "No outer party of enforcement shall infringe upon the investigations of a local force, unless victimized directly in the form of a presently endangered member, of deputy or higher rank."

He swore and leaped out of his chair, sending beer sloshing onto his chair, but he was oblivious. He fumbled through the apartment, eventually getting a hold on his cell phone, and dialing the correct number after a few slip-ups.

It was answered on the first ring. "Vick?"

"I found the damn thing!" He shouted carelessly into the phone, followed by a brief mental lapse as to what he had found. He recovered quickly.

"_Excuse me?"_

He cleared his throat. "Sorry, chief, I's just tryin' a tell you, I f'n the thingy!"

He stumbled back to the chair, picking up the carelessly discarded manual. It then took him several silent moments to find the correct page.

"Alright Detective, this isn't a drunk-driving hotline, so unless you have something concrete-"

"Edition 18-19, I mean Line Volume A, wait that's not right…"

"Just read the passage Detective!"

'Right! No under party of infringement shall oppose on the force investigating, unless vehicles are directly present and in danger of becoming a deputy."

He was proud of himself for getting through the whole thing, though it seemed to have made more sense the first time through…

There was silence on the other end for a moment. "Detective, could you possibly repeat the _edition, volume, chapter, and line._" She annunciated the words with exaggerated precision, hoping to appeal to her Head Detective's inebriated mind.

"A three four eighteen." He slurred, closing his eyes to ward off a head rush as he attempted to walk to the door.

"I'll be damned," was the whispered reply through the phone. Upon hearing the commotion on his end, she added, "And Detective, if you even sit inside a car in that state you are going to lose you badge for a _very _long time."

He let that sink in eventually flopping back down on the couch, after a small lurch towards the floor.

"I'll be there as soon as I can Lassiter, but it'll probably be about twenty minutes."

"Mmkay. See ya later, all'gator."

The Chief sighed deeply, before scrolling through her contacts for another number.

Gus was sitting, surrounded by paper and junk, in the middle of the coastal office that housed their so-called "business." They'd all parted hours ago, all taking a different angle in their hunt for anything that could help. Gus was waist-deep in old files and internet search histories, trying to see if his partner and best friend had gotten himself into something beyond the drug thing. It seemed like a fairly simple task, except that the faux psychic wasn't exactly a record-keeping extraordinaire. Most were non-existent, half were in slang, and the great majority were either covered in food stains or ripped into pieces.

The only "filing cabinet" to speak of was an old 1960's TV Shawn had bought a garage sale, hollowed out, and now used as a place to throw miscellaneous junk.

Or, if you're Shawn, important financial, medical, and personal records.

He was thankful from the distraction when his phone rang, deep under the hoards of _stuff _ covering the room. He found it on the fifth ring and swiped it on.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Guster, it's Vick. Lassiter found it. It's some weird clause in an outdated but still on-the-books edition of the protocol handbook."

"Well, what does it say?" They'd been looking for hours, and no one knew the law better than Lassiter and Vick, so this miracle loophole came as a surprise to him.

The Chief chose her words carefully. "Lassiter wasn't in a position to…read paragraphs…word for word and…communicate…efficiently, so I looked it up myself. I don't have the exact edition at home, so I'm headed to his place now to see what our next move should be."

"Why can't we all just drive ourselves to the station?"

"Why do you have to ask so many questions?" She snapped.

"He's drunk, isn't he." It wasn't a hard guess; everyone knew situations of high stress strayed the detective towards alcohol, and context clues made it an easy jump.

"Just get there." He scratched down the address she recited, and he grabbed his coat and jogged out the door.

The car sped down the gravel path, kicking up a cloud of dust and shag in its wake. The cloud so obstructed their line of sight that they didn't see the Cadillac in front of them until it was too late and was slamming head on into the much smaller vehicle. Both spun out in a loud, crashing orchestra of screeching metal and tumbling cars.

The Cadillac spun to a hault in a ditch at the side of the road, bursting into flames immediately, as gasoline began to pour from the carriage. The other car lay on its roof on the opposite side of the road, smoking billowing from under the hood in the telltale sign that it, too could blow at any second.

Regardless, one man from each vehicle lay dead in their respective vehicles, killed upon impact. One man emerged from the overturned vehicle, bleeding heavily and stumbling about. He caught a glimpse of a man emerging miraculously from the burning car, and made a run for the nearby brush, knowing he needed to get away as fast as possible, injuries be damned.

The passenger of the burning Cadillac stumbled his way into the middle of the scalped driveway, trying to put his injuries to the back of his mind for a moment. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a mangled but blessedly functioning cell phone. His shaking fingers took several minutes to input the correct number. A gruff voice answered on the other line.

"Soy yo. Ha habido un accidente. Necesito tu ayuda."


End file.
